


Sit Vigil

by renwhit



Series: Road to Damascus [6]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, And a bit of fluff but not much!, Angst, Canon-typical Peter Awfulness, Canonical Character Death, Discussions of Canonical Child Abuse, Discussions of Homophobia, Elias's job requirements are 1. Be some flavor of LGBT and 2. Be pre-traumatized, End!Tim, Gen, Ghost!Tim, Manipulation, Non-Canonical Character Undeath, Ship Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-02
Updated: 2020-03-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:55:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22992823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/renwhit/pseuds/renwhit
Summary: “You wanna sit?”“On— on your grave?”Tim cracked an eye open to look up at Martin. “I’m already sitting on my own grave, I don’t think you can get better permission than that.”“I—” Martin cut himself off with a short laugh. “I guess that’s true. Sure.”Or, in which Tim has a quiet conversation and makes a quiet gamble.
Relationships: Background Basira Hussain & Tim Stoker, Background Jon Sims & Tim Stoker, Danny Stoker & Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood & Peter Lukas, Martin Blackwood & Tim Stoker
Series: Road to Damascus [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1594225
Comments: 75
Kudos: 422
Collections: GerryTitan verse





	Sit Vigil

**Author's Note:**

> is this less painful than interred? yes! does that mean it is not painful? haha
> 
> speaking of interred, WE HAVE FANART! [shower this baby in all your love because i'm still losing my MIND](https://titanfalling.tumblr.com/post/611045251278340096/dragon-zena-this-is-a-bad-idea-what-so)
> 
> suggested listening: clinging on to life by the hoosiers

It was a beautiful day out. Sunshine, warmth, a light breeze. Tim even fancied he could feel it on his skin. 

He could try and manifest enough to do so, of course, but that might be too much alongside keeping the bottle in his hand firmly there. A ghost could only do so many things at once. 

There was no way to tell if the assurance in his stride came from the same gentle, inevitable pull of the End when he had destination in mind, or if it was simply because he’d walked this path so many times. It didn’t matter either way, not when the outcome was the same. 

When he reached the proper row, a new arrival made him laugh aloud. He should have expected it. 

_TIMOTHY STOKER_

_1984 — 2017_

Well, there were worse places to sit. He didn’t bother being grateful that it hadn’t rained recently like he did when he came here during life — this time, mud wouldn’t have mattered. His own headstone wouldn’t make the most comfortable of backrests, but again that only mattered to someone who could touch it. 

He popped the lid off the beer bottle in hand using the corner of the stone at his back, then upended it over the grave to his left.

“Happy birthday, Danny. You get the whole thing this year — can’t exactly drink my half.” 

The cemetery had a strict no-alcohol policy, of course. It probably had a strict no-haunting policy as well, one that’d be just as well enforced. 

Couldn’t stop the dead from hanging around. Couldn’t stop the living from drowning their sorrows. It was the way of the world. 

“S’been a lot of changes these days. Aside from the whole _ghost_ thing. That’s just the cherry on top.”

There was quite a bit he hadn’t updated Danny on. He’d visited the cemetery plenty in the last years of his life — once a week for a while, then once a month, always on Danny’s birthday — but in those later visits he didn’t talk much. 

All he said the last time he came, just before the Unknowing, was, “See you soon.” More fool him, right?

“Did I tell you about my trip to Malaysia? Tracked down some of Mum’s family and met up with them there.” 

Sure, it’d been a desperate escape attempt from his prison and just ended up making him sick, but the first few days were nice. Really nice. 

“My Malay is rusty, ‘course, and my Chinese is worse, but between that and the bits of English some of our cousins knew we made it work.” He smiled at the memory. His anthropology degree came with a lot of thinking about language in general, and he’d always been fascinated by how people could communicate even when they couldn’t speak to each other. Experiencing it first hand was something else entirely — he was certain he laughed more in two days than he did in the entire year previous. 

“Found out why Mum used to go on about how her brother — Yusuf, remember? — drove her crazy: he’s a _riot._ He’d tell me jokes and then watch with this smile while one of his kids translated as he waited for the punchline to land, it was great." The laugh that escaped him now was much quieter. “You would’ve liked him.

“Did you know that side’s practicing Muslim? I know our family was never the religious sort, but apparently Islam’s the majority over there. I tried to go along with it, but it only took about two minutes for them to realize I had no idea what the hell I was doing,” Tim said with a shake of his head. “Luckily some of our cousins took mercy and showed me what to do, when and all that.

“One cousin, Safiya, was a lot like you. Major adrenaline junkie, kept trying to drag me into doing all sorts of crazy stuff. Her sister said it was because everyone else knew better than to go along, but I was new blood.” His smile faded. “That was when I started feeling sick though, so I couldn’t take her up on too much. Still, it was nice.” 

Another thing he wouldn’t forgive the Institute for: making him ill, and ruining something he desperately needed. A break. An outside connection. Something not tied to the whole bloody supernatural nightmare. 

“It’s good that I ended up getting a hotel rather than staying with anyone there. It felt weird to try and claim a couch from some family I’d never met, and our gran fussed over me enough when I was with them. I couldn’t do that all hours of the day.” The complaint couldn’t get more ingenuine. Being fussed over was… nice. Unusual, but nice. “You should have seen her when she saw all the scars, I swear.” 

He told them all it was from some illness, and thankfully the language barrier kept them from asking too many questions. Whatever the word in Malay was for _parasite,_ he didn’t know it and didn’t want to.

Saying he had to cut the trip short assumed he had any end date in mind, but he’d certainly wanted to be there longer than a week. His aunt Puteri was going to be in town the week after (at least, he _thought_ she was his aunt, but with how big the family was there it was hard to tell) with her wife, Siti. Would’ve been nice to get a picture with them and post it on social media, then cross his fingers that his mum saw. Maybe add some snarky caption about how “it runs in the family,” just to sharpen it even more. 

His dad kicked him out some, just like his mum, but without giving any obvious avenue for snark to exploit. Bastard. Still, though: can take the kid out of the house, can’t take the gay out of the kid. Ha.

Alright, Tim was bi, not gay, but that was a lot less punchy a turn of phrase. 

He went quiet, overwhelmed by something he’d always felt when talking to Danny here and could no longer ignore.

What was the point of this?

Danny couldn’t hear him. Danny wasn’t sitting invisible at his side listening like in a sappy movie. Even if he wasn’t in the same not-place Tim was after his own death (please, G-d, let him be anywhere else), that didn’t mean Danny somehow knew where Tim was or what he was saying. Things like this were for the living, and Tim no longer numbered among them. 

Throughout the whole cemetery, there was only one living soul there for it to serve. A familiar, fogged soul. One that was hesitating at the end of the row, like it was trying to decide whether to approach. 

Tim made the choice for him with a wave. “Hey, Martin.”

After another moment of hesitation, Martin came over. “Hi. I, uh, didn’t expect to see you here.”

“It’s his birthday,” Tim explained as he nodded to the headstone at his side. “Are you visiting someone?”

“Yeah, my mum. I try to come by every so often.” Martin shuffled where he stood, still hovering awkwardly over Tim.

“You wanna sit?”

“On— on your grave?”

Tim cracked an eye open to look up at Martin. “I’m already sitting on my own grave, I don’t think you can get better permission than that.” 

“I—” Martin cut himself off with a short laugh. “I guess that’s true. Sure.” 

The day was still beautiful. The sun was still warm. The breeze still blew in a gentle hush. The way of the world remained as it was; the living mourning the dead without the dead’s knowledge or care. 

“It was a nice ceremony…?” Immediate wince. “That’s probably an awkward thing to mention, huh, telling a guy about his own funeral.” 

“A bit. Was it open casket?” Tim adopted a posh tone. “‘Beloved, we are gathered here today to remember the dearly departed. We’re pretty sure we found all the fingers but it’s anyone’s guess if they’re all his.’”

Martin gave a helpless laugh. “Jesus, that’s awful. No, it was closed. But otherwise it was… y’know. Fine. As fine as any funeral is, I guess. I just thought someone from the Institute should be there.”

“...No one else, then?” Tim let his head rest back on the stone behind him, trying to decide how he felt about that. Unsurprised, mostly. He made a point of avoiding Melanie and Basira. Daisy was in the Buried, and sure as hell wouldn’t have gone even if she wasn’t. 

Jon was in the hospital then. Dead. Basira said it was like a coma, but Jon was dead for those six months. If he weren’t busy being dead, he probably would have gone, no matter how bright the fire that burned the bridge between them was. Tim from back then would have found some way to be pissed off about that. Here, now, sitting on his own grave, Tim could only be tiredly fond.

The other staff around the Institute did everything they could to pretend the archives didn’t exist. They didn’t know the half of what went on down there, but everyone could tell something was messed up. Maybe it was because the whole damn place got flooded with worms that ate two of the staff. Maybe it was all the noise and chaos that’d no doubt come from the thing that replaced Sasha getting loose, or the brutally murdered corpse of Leitner they pulled from the head archivist’s own office. Tim telling everyone to get out while they still could hadn’t helped matters, both with inter-staff relationships and with the belief that the archives were cursed. 

Him dying via explosion in a defunct wax museum _really_ wouldn’t have helped. No wonder none of them went to his funeral, not if they were sure it was all monster-related.

Maybe that was part of the reason no one would meet his eyes when he came back. 

“I… didn’t mean to say that,” Martin mumbled with another wince. “Sorry. It— it wasn’t personal, I don’t think, just… the archives, and all.”

“Yeah. Just the archives.” Just the damn archives, what else was new. “Probably for the best that they didn’t all get to meet the family. If my parents went the whole time without arguing— no, _fifteen minutes,_ I’ll eat my own damn headstone.”

“I-I mean, they didn’t— It wasn’t, well—” Sighing, Martin’s shoulders slumped. “Yeah.”

There was a certain level of grim vindication with knowing he had them dead to rights. If losing Danny didn’t make them get their shit straightened out, it would’ve felt wrong for losing Tim to do so. Danny’s death was a tragedy. Tim’s was not. 

_I can’t imagine you’ll ever be numb to seeing how long it took for Danny Stoker to die._

Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it. Do not fucking think about it. 

“There’s a reason I haven’t spoken to them since Danny’s funeral.”

“You haven’t? Not even after you came back?”

No helping the laugh. Tim had no energy for harshness, but his bitter tone came as a reflex. “Hell no.”

“But— I mean, they’re your parents.” Martin wasn’t chastising, thankfully, just confused. “They’d want to know you’re still— y’know, around.” 

“Yeah, they’re my parents, and if they wanted to keep me around they should’ve acted like it.” Tim grimaced. “But hey, you got a front-row seat to how they are. I’ll tell you right now — if they acted how they did at Danny’s, that’s just what they were like my whole life.”

“...Oh.”

“Yeah. Divorced when I was eleven, Danny was eight, but they did their damn best to keep arguing _through_ us.” Tim laughed again. “Only thing they agreed on was not wanting a poof son, but then it just turned into, _Oh, he learned that at your house, didn’t he,_ back and forth ‘til I got my own place when I was seventeen.”

Martin had that same look of somewhat uncomfortable concern people usually got when Tim talked about his parents. Whoops. “I noticed you didn’t mention them in your statement, but… Tim, I…”

“Sorry. I know you didn’t come here to hear about my wonderful family, not when you came to see your own.” 

Martin stared at his hands where they sat folded in his lap. “I probably shouldn’t come anyway. Not sure she’d appreciate it.”

It was with equal parts quiet sympathy and anger on his behalf that Tim studied Martin’s face. He didn’t look particularly upset, just weary. Tim wondered when the last time he got a good night’s sleep was.

He didn’t know the ins and outs of Martin’s relationship with his parents — considering his own home life, Tim knew better than to ask. There was no dad in the picture, he’d gathered, and his mum had been ill for a long time. He knew that when they went out before everything started to go to hell, Martin took all phone calls from her out of the room, and whenever he saw it was her calling his face shut down. He knew Martin was the sort to give and give until he had nothing left in some sort of effort to prove his worth, and that it wasn’t the sort of thing he could learn without someone to teach him that it was his place. He knew that he agreed with Martin — he probably shouldn’t visit his mother’s grave anymore, but for Tim it had nothing to do with whether _she’d_ appreciate it or not. Martin was long overdue a chance to put his own feelings first.

He knew all that, and knew if he said any of it Martin would disagree, insist Tim was making everything sound worse than it was, the whole nine yards. 

Jesus, maybe he _should_ call up his old therapist, if only to put Martin on the line so he could get the same patient explanation that his parents’ love wasn’t something he should have to earn. 

Scratch that. Once all this was over, they’d _all_ need some damn good therapists. Martin, Jon, Basira, the whole lot of them. Damn good therapists that could handle trauma both human and otherwise. 

Tim was struck with a sudden image of a new leaderboard in the archives of who got the most individual diagnoses of PTSD. Knowing that place, they’d all stay neck and neck, and the prize would be more trauma. And they said the Institute had a bad benefits package. 

With a short sigh, Martin finally leaned back against the headstone next to Tim. He knew it was pointless to try and feel the faint pressure where their shoulders brushed. All he had was the memory of every time it’d happened in the past — getting his spirits up during the months he camped out in the archives proper; leaning against him after a rough day at physical therapy; telling him he needed to sleep when deep in spiraling impossible hallways, and that Tim would keep watch over him. 

No shortage of things to remember, sure, but memory could never fill the gap of what Tim so sorely lacked. Yes, he had Georgie. Yes, he had the Admiral. That contact was a gift he had no intention of downplaying. 

Hugging Georgie wouldn’t shake the quiet exhaustion from Martin’s face. Stroking the Admiral wouldn’t soothe the dark bags under Martin’s eyes. Companionship was the only comfort Tim could give, and it would never feel like enough. 

Together in the sunshine, they kept quiet for a few beats before Martin broke it. "I’ll probably still visit, anyway. Can’t get much Lonelier than going to the grave of someone who didn’t love you.” 

“Or you could come to mine.”

“What? Why?”

Tim shrugged. “Because going to the grave of someone who didn’t care about you sounds depressing, and you don’t need to worry about that over here. Miss me too much, and I’m sure I’ll be back to bother you before long anyway.” And because Martin was not going to get Lonelier if Tim had anything to say about it.

“That’s—” Bemused but almost smiling, Martin shook his head. “That’s ridiculous, you’re not even— well, okay, you _are_ dead, but—”

“Hey, if you need a reason you can just leave sneaky coded notes.” Tim took a brief moment to concentrate, then gave a gentle nudge to Martin’s ribs with his elbow. "Espionage, remember?”

“Right, how could I forget? I’m… Eagle Two?”

“Got it in one.”

“And you’re… What was yours, again?”

Tim pressed a hand to his heart in mock hurt. “I trusted you with all this spy business, and you can’t remember your partner’s codename? For _shame.”_

Rolling his eyes, Martin went to elbow Tim back. “Yeah, yeah— _shit—”_

Tim blinked down at where Martin had caught himself on a hand after his elbow made contact with nothing, putting his head level with the middle of Tim’s chest. G-d, that would never not look weird. 

“Good thing you’re the only living person here,” Tim said mildly as Martin extracted himself. “No idea how we’d explain that image.”

Martin kept glancing at Tim’s chest as if trying to see through it. “Yeah, I— wow, that was… bizarre.”

“Could you see the inside of my shirt, or…?”

“No, you just… weren’t there anymore.” 

“Weird.”

“You’re not even the one who went ghost-diving!” sputtered Martin.

Though he knew it would be silent, Tim clapped his hands. “New Olympic sport idea: ghost-diving. I have no idea what that’d entail yet, but I’ll damn well figure it out if it means that can be on the official roster.” 

“I’m sure that’d go—” An abrupt halt as Martin squinted past him. “Did… Did you bring a beer with you? Can you even drink that?”

“What? Oh, no.” Tim had honestly forgotten the bottle was still there. “No, on Danny’s thirteenth I split one with him. He tried so hard to pretend like he didn’t think it was awful, it was hilarious." Damn near twenty years later, and that image still made him smile. “After that, splitting one was just tradition. Lucky bastard got the whole thing this year, and I’m sure that’ll stay the case until I find something more ghost-friendly.” He snapped a few times. “There’s a joke about _spirits_ in there somewhere, give me a minute.”

“Uh, no. Absolutely not.” Martin grimaced like a champion in preparation for whatever awful pun Tim was trying to throw together.

“Just saying, _we’ll split some harder spirits next year_ feels too obvious, hm…” 

“...I’m going back to the Institute.” Bits of grass fluttered down as Martin stood and brushed off his trousers. “Have a great time workshopping.” 

“Martin, this is a team effort! Come on, help me out. Here, I’ll walk with you. I should head back too, anyway.”

“Lucky me.”

“Damn right.” 

Martin sighed, but no amount of long-suffering dread could hide the traces of a smile. “Shut up, Casper.”

“You _do_ remember!” Tim pressed his hand to his heart again, this time in delight, as he followed Martin on the neat cemetery trails. “And I thought our time together meant nothing to you.”

“I wish it didn’t, but it continues to haunt me.” 

Tim stopped dead in his tracks. “...Oh, my g-d, I’m a horrible influence.” 

Confusion knit Martin's brows, only to slap his hands over his face with a long groan a second later. “That wasn’t even on _purpose.”_

“Oh, no, no,” Tim said with a wide grin. “No taking it back! Now, c’mon, Eagle Two. Let’s get back to base, share a spirit with the spirit.”

“...Four out of ten.”

“Dammit.”

* * *

Tim had no metric for how far they walked, nor how close their destination was, but he knew they’d arrive soon. The quiet he’d normally fill with chatter felt less uncomfortable these days — there was so _much_ of time. Negative space was inevitable. Martin used to chatter just as much as Tim, but he too let the quiet stay. 

Tim tried to gauge whether that was something worrisome considering the Lonely’s whole _thing,_ but how much was normal? How long had they even been walking? It couldn’t have been long — the sun was still up, and Martin didn’t seem concerned — but with spans of time that short, there was no telling. 

Eugh. The End talking — or, _not_ talking, as it were. Better clear that out with conversation, bring back a little of the old normal. He might as well prod about something that’d been bugging him for a while, and that talking about his funeral had pulled back into his thoughts. 

“So this is kind of morbid, but…”

Martin was already bracing himself. “That’s not an encouraging start.”

“Tough,” Tim replied as he waved a hand at him. “S’what happens when you’re palling around with a ghost.” 

“My mother always warned me about that, and this is what I get for not listening.” Martin’s long-suffering tone made Tim laugh even around the sharp spike of loathing at the mention of Martin’s mother. 

“This is why you never listen to your elders. Anyway — do you know how much of, uh… _me_ they ended up finding? In whatever was left of the wax museum?”

“W-wow, uh…” Silence. Tim allowed him the moment to process. “That’s definitely morbid, yeah.”

“I did warn you.”

“Fair enough, I guess. I don’t know for sure. Basira was the one asking all the questions,” Martin said with a shrug.

Made sense. Once a detective, always a detective.

Tim’s brows drew. Basira was never a detective, right? Why had his thoughts automatically connected her with the title? Weird.

When Tim didn’t reply, Martin continued. “I mean, enough to identify you, obviously, but… I don’t think there even _was_ anything in the casket.” 

“Huh.”

“Bit afraid to ask but… why?”

Tim rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. “What, can’t a guy be curious about his own corpse?”

“When you make me hear things like, _curious about his own corpse,_ I’m pretty sure I’m entitled to ask any questions I want,” Martin said, dry.

“Yeah, yeah. More morbid talk, then.”

“I think I can handle it.”

Tim sent him a sideways grin. “Sure you can, you big strongman—”

“Stop derailing, Tim.” Martin made no effort to soften the edges of his words. 

“Alright, alright.” If Tim could handle Jon in full _annoy potential new friends enough that I never have to experience human connection_ mode and come out smiling, he could handle Martin’s _jab away all current friends so I no longer experience human connection_ mode without batting an eye. Jon had the advantage of Tim being just as disinterested in getting to know his new coworkers right after he was hired, but with Martin, well — Tim was more inevitably persistent than ever these days. “Have one of the others told you about the, uh, injuries thing that happens?”

“Yeah. It’s from how other people die, right? The ones you… see?”

Tim shrugged as easily as he was able. “Right, but at the beginning it was just the ones from when _I_ died — or, I thought, anyway, but they’re not that severe. Or, they’re pretty damn severe, but I’m still— intact, y’know? Mostly.”

_At the beginning, or when I’m very fucked up,_ Tim did not add. Unpleasant enough to think about, less pleasant to say, _way_ less pleasant to explain in full. Disclosure would bring up the most recent example and… best left avoided. Avoided, not spoken about, definitely not thought about. Hard pass. Bad enough he still had to look Basira in the eye. 

Something in the way she didn’t so much as acknowledge all _that_ afterwards helped, strangely. It happened, they dealt with it, end of story. She could keep Solution X to Problem Y tucked away on some mental shelf, and if all went well, never need it again. 

Unlikely with Tim’s luck, but it was a nice thought.

“...Would you _rather_ just be bits strewn around?”

Tim snorted. “Definitely not. Hurts enough with me still mostly in one piece.”

“That’s— that’s fair.” Martin looked equal parts concerned and uncertain, clearly wanting to help but with no idea where to even begin. “Maybe it was just those specific injuries that were, um, fatal?”

“Yeah, that could be,” Tim said. It didn’t sit quite right in his head, but what other explanation was there? It’s not like there was some second or third explosion to hit him and finish the job. An attempt to remember anything from the Unknowing was asking for disaster, so vague context like this was all he had to go on.

They fell into quiet again, and again Tim couldn’t be sure if it was an issue. Where was the point between companionable and uncomfortable? 

G-d, things like that used to be so easy. Intrinsic. 

“Did you ever end up meeting Peter?” Martin asked after… some amount of time. “Since he mentioned wanting to a while ago.”

Tim snorted. “Nope. Hung around his office for a while, but he never showed up. I just rearranged all his bookshelves to kill time, and when he still never came in, I left.”

“I doubt he’ll notice. He hates reading,” Martin said. 

“If that’s not a sign of evil, I don’t know what is,” Tim replied as they headed up the Institute steps. “Well, evil or dyslexia.”

“How’d you arrange them?”

“Kind of Dewey Decimal, but if he was completely hammered.”

As they came into the lobby, no one so much as looked up. There were no greetings, no waves. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Martin looked almost hazy. It wasn’t enough to be obvious, but the edges of his form blurred by a fraction, and the color in his skin and clothes went dull. Between the End and the Lonely, they were damn near a walking blind spot.

When they got to his office door, Martin paused. “I’ve got a lot of work to do that I should get back on.”

“Sure. Is this, _I’ve got a lot of work so you can hang out in here and keep me company, but I won’t be chatty,_ or is it, _I’ve got a lot of work and if you stay I’ll be too distracted by how devilishly handsome and very charismatic you are, so get out of here?”_ A genuine question despite the wording. 

Martin rolled his eyes. “The second one, please.”

“Oh, you’re too kind — I know I’m devilishly handsome and all, but you didn’t have to add how charismatic I am, too!”

“I-I didn’t—”

“Nope, no taking it back!” Tim grinned at the slight flush on Martin’s face — no matter what happened, he was still easy to tease. Quieter, he continued. “I’ll come ‘round later then, yeah?”

Martin didn’t look enthused by the thought, but Tim wasn’t going to argue about it. They didn’t have to talk when Tim was there. Martin didn’t even need to acknowledge Tim coming into the room for all he cared. All Tim wanted was some small way to combat that creeping Loneliness. 

Basira had told him about the cold rebuttals Martin gave whenever she or Melanie attempted to make contact, and Jon was respecting his wish for space — for the most part, anyway. Tim, meanwhile, knew Martin far too well to be scared off by the same tactics meant to cut everyone else out, and had no intention of allowing a space between them the passive chance to grow. He didn’t remember much from the not-place not-time nothing between his death and waking up again, but he knew the _alone_ was the worst part. 

All that in mind, he didn’t see keeping him company as a point of debate. It wasn’t a matter of _if_ he would come back, but _when._

“...Sure. Fine.” Martin didn’t protest — not this time, at any rate. Tim figured it’d only be so long before he tried to shove Tim away just as hard as he did anyone else, but they could deal with that when they got there.

Tim shot him a pair of finger guns. “See you then.”

Another nod and tight half-smile, and Martin was gone. 

For a moment, Tim lingered outside the door. It was hard to decide how to approach this whole situation when Martin refused to tell him anything. All he could do was the same thing he’d done since he got back — try to stick around when Martin let him and ignore the feeling that it wasn’t enough as best he could. 

Another pull. Soon, he could tell. Fine. He’d go then and back, and keep awareness up for any fog rolling in around an already too-cloudy soul.

* * *

After this long, the lack of noise from his footfalls even in the most silent halls of the Institute came as no surprise. This part of the building had less ambient noise than any other — no clack of computer keys, no ringing phones, no soft chatter between employees. There were other offices nearby, yes, but all were empty. The only other life was in the library, far at the other end of the hall. Going up the stairs meant hearing the slow fade from floors bustling with people to one that rang as empty as a long-forgotten skeleton’s ribcage.

There was purpose in the emptiness, and it set Tim’s teeth on edge. 

He was used to making no sound as he moved. That didn’t mean he appreciated being unable to break the resin-cast solitude with his lack of true presence — all he had was his words, words that could never be quite enough. 

People weren’t meant to be alone. Tim spent enough time alone these days to know. 

The cloying silence around him came with a single benefit: hearing a smoke-fogged soul’s voice inside Martin’s office before Tim could open the door and give himself away. 

The silence of Tim’s being came with a benefit of its own: eavesdropping. If the Lonely somehow gave Peter a sense for any people near him to avoid, Tim would bet that the whole _ghost_ thing provided some cover. Hard to see a person’s silhouette in the fog when that person was just mist themself, after all. 

By the time Tim was in earshot, he caught only the tail end of Martin’s voice. 

“—have to do with me?” 

Peter’s response was hard to make out. Tim considered going inside the office while invisible to keep better tabs, but figured if Peter _could_ somehow sense him, his odds at staying unnoticed were better from in the hall. All Tim heard was, “...requires someone touched by the Beholding,” then a mention of Elias. Icy cold eyes flashed in Tim’s head at the name, ones that he did his best to shove off with a quick shudder. Not important. 

He spared a moment to wonder if this was how Martin felt after Elias hit him with the same _spike trauma directly into the skull_ trick. If he also still felt those awful eyes and heard that same smooth, calm voice describing his worst nightmares for a long while after. 

Basira said that Martin had been able to pull himself together afterward, and hadn’t needed someone else to build him scaffolding first like Tim, but what other choice was there? He couldn’t fall apart in someone’s office and dissociate for — hours? was it hours? — when there were plans to fulfill and terrible bosses to arrest. He had no Basira give him steady words and quiet company. He had no Sasha, no Tim, no Jon. None of the people who knew him from the start, who could have helped him. 

He was alone. 

Hearing Martin say as much on the other side of the door only strengthened Tim’s determination. He wasn’t alone now. He wasn’t. Tim couldn’t do much these days, but he could do this. He had to. 

“The thing is, Peter,” said Martin with a level of disdain that almost made Tim smile. It was like Tim told him so long ago — the best parts of Martin were where he stood firm. “If I were to be blunt, I’d say that it would be _suicidally_ stupid.”

Dammit, Tim hadn’t caught part of that. There was some plan Peter was trying to pull Martin into, everyone in the archives knew that, but no telling what. Martin was resisting. That was good. Martin also had no one to help him continue standing firm against whatever Peter wanted. 

There was no doubting Martin’s resolve. Tim could only hope he stayed just as resolute against Peter as he did against the people who cared for him. 

Peter replied with some mention of the Forsaken, was briefly cut off by Martin, then continued, “I’m rather keen for the world not to end in the meantime?”

Terrific. Doomsday again. Lucky them, getting a second chance at a first impression.

“Martin, this is what we agreed. After the Flesh attacked, _you_ came to _me_. And I’ve held up my end of the bargain, despite…”

Peter’s voice dropped again, but just that bit held plenty for Tim to piece together. Christ, did they even have a plan should the Institute get attacked again? He wasn’t eager to trust Peter’s help on the matter, but what other defenses did they have?

This defense was flimsy in more ways than one — Peter didn’t strike Tim as the sort to come to the Institute’s rescue with any haste, and his position as defender built itself on nothing more than a bargain. Some deal they made, some price they put on Martin’s life against every other soul in the place.

A deal with the devil, then. Life for a life. The End’s bread and butter.

Peter and Martin went back and forth further, but it was a long moment before Tim could catch anything besides scattered words. 

“...not going to pressure you into doing anything you don’t want to.” Peter. “It won’t even work unless you’re willing to commit.”

The same skin-crawling hatred Tim held towards Elias started to burn double. He and Peter might have approached their targets with different tones and tools, but the tactic was ultimately the same — _I won’t force you to do anything, I’ll just make sure you feel like you have no other choice._

Tim’s original concern with Elias and Jon had been about evil of a much more mundane variety. Finding out that the true goal was all fear deities and apocalypse rituals was not a comfort then, and it wasn’t one now. 

As Peter gave a quick goodbye, Tim started to move away from the door — he was pretty sure Peter wouldn’t be able to sense him, but that was no reason to try his luck — when Martin’s reply stopped him in his tracks. 

“Are we going to talk about Jon? Or Tim?”

A small part of Tim noted that as the bold move it was — Martin kept a degree of power in the conversation with it, and laid cards on the table that he knew Peter could see and didn’t want to let him call out before Martin could do it himself. The rest strained as hard as he could to hear what Peter said in reply. 

“Do we need to?” Cavalier. Let Martin keep his little power play. Prodded at the growing isolation around Martin — the presence of Tim and Jon only needed to be discussed if Martin let it be a problem. If he _chose_ for it to be one.

Jesus, did being an avatar come with seminars on manipulation? 

There was another quick exchange too muffled to hear, though when he caught Peter say, “I have to keep tabs on things the old-fashioned way,” and Martin’s reply of, “What, turning invisible and _eavesdropping?_ ” he had to suppress a snort. Maybe death was making Tim an old-fashioned kind of guy. He could slot right into all the things with that lo-fi charm Martin loved. 

“...Cannot-Breathe. I went to help, but was too late. Then, your detective friend—”

“No, she’s not a…”

There it was again. Basira, detective. Strange, not that Tim had the spare thoughts to consider it right then. 

Peter ran through a quick outline of the last months’ events, but it wasn’t until his conclusion that the fishhook anger in Tim’s spine dragged him tense and upright. 

“What does puzzle me though, and I mean that genuinely, is why you were piling tape recorders onto the coffin while Jon was in there, then spent an hour camped out next to the Institute ghost.” A pause. “It’s a question, Martin, it’s not an accusation.”

True, it wasn’t an accusation. It was a threat. 

Peter knew. Peter wanted to be sure Martin knew. Peter wanted Martin to fear the consequences of his care.

Someday Peter would die, and Tim would collect that last agonized breath with a smile on his face.

He couldn’t hear quite what Martin said in return, but the tone he caught kept its composure like a champion despite some falters. Peter’s reply almost made Tim laugh aloud. Warning Martin about the possibility of someone else controlling his actions, that was _rich_.

Another few muted words, then, “I’m not going to tell you to stop talking to them, or even saving them if it comes to it. If that’s not a decision you’re willing to make yourself, me scolding you isn’t going to help.”

In this, Tim knew three things:

The first: Martin’s isolation was pointed against Jon and Tim in particular. 

The second: this conversation would almost certainly lead to Martin pushing Tim as far away as he did Jon.

The third: any attempts Tim made to circumvent that always had a chance to catch Peter’s attention, and subsequently push that much harder on Martin. 

“You know what the stakes are now,” Peter said, and though it wasn’t said to Tim, Tim understood. He knew what was at risk, _really_ at risk. It would be impossible to lower those stakes from his position, so Tim would have to do the only thing he could: raise them even higher himself. Keep control. Not let Peter make the first move. If nothing else, he was sure Martin would approve of that tactic. 

A stroke of luck meant Peter came through the door rather than step right into the Lonely. Good. It was about time for Tim to introduce himself. 

He let Peter walk a bit down the hallway, then came up behind him silent as ever. He needed to check something. 

“Lukas! Heard you wanted to say hello.” When Peter turned to face him, Tim offered a smile. “Had a hell of a time tracking you down, though.”

He watched Peter’s face carefully and… _yes,_ there it was. The smallest flicker of surprise. Peter hadn’t known he was there. Less important now when Tim was taking the initiative to reveal himself, but it was good information to have. 

Pleasant as ever, Tim put out his hand to shake. Peter started to return the gesture, only to stop halfway through. 

“Ah, nice try. You almost had me! And it’s Peter, please. Do you pull that trick on everyone?”

Tim shrugged and put the offending hand in his pocket. “Not everyone, but it’s always funny. People get so confused when there’s nothing there to grab.” 

“We avatars have to find our fun somehow. Lovely to meet you though, really. I’m sure you heard when you were eavesdropping, but I have a family thing to get to. Funerals, you understand.”

“Sure, sure.” The encore of Peter’s tactic of a cavalier nod to what things he knew didn’t faze Tim. He was the one who revealed himself, so Peter putting together that Tim had listened in wasn’t something that worried Tim too much. “Before you go, I had a question I wanted to ask.”

Peter nodded and gestured for him to continue without hesitation, but there was some tension building around his eyes. This was probably more conversation in ten minutes than he preferred to have through an entire month. Tough.

“You a betting man, Peter?”

The tension vanished to make way for keen interest. “If the bet is good enough. Did you have something in mind?”

“You’re meant to defend the Institute when needed, deter enemies, all that, right?”

“When it’s not another episode of needless self-destruction, yes,” Peter replied. There was some humor in his tone, likely thinking of the whole Buried escapade again.

“‘Course. Thing is,” Tim continued as casually as ever. “I don’t think you’re actually too capable of that. The Lonely isn’t much of a fighting force.”

Peter’s brows raised by a degree. “You’re the one who worked in the archives, Tim. I’m sure you’ve read plenty of statements from those who brushed against the Forsaken.”

“Yeah, and all of them were ordinary humans. No connections to other entities. No avatars.” He needed to be cautious. Goad him enough to take Tim’s bet, not so much that he just threw Tim right into the Lonely to prove a point. Whether that was even possible considering he didn't have a physical form wasn't a question he was eager to answer. “Something like the Flesh attacks again, I doubt you’d be able to do much.”

With a slight tilt of his head, Peter smiled. “Is that your bet, then?”

It wasn’t the strongest possible play Tim could make, he was sure, but his options were limited. The fraction he knew of Peter’s plans didn’t give him much to work with. He didn’t want to bargain anything to do with Martin — Martin had enough pressure on him with the original bargain. If Tim bet on Martin’s fortitude against Peter, that would just invite Peter to push on him harder. Betting on Peter’s inability to keep the Institute safe would add another incentive for him to actually try and uphold that. 

“Got it in one.”

“And the stakes?”

“If I’m right, you fuck off from the Institute.” Despite the words, Tim kept his voice friendly. “Martin does all of your job anyway, and I’m sure he can forge your signature like a pro by now. Your name stays on all the official documents, but you piss off into the Lonely. It’ll be a nice vacation from having to interact with anyone.”

Peter nodded in consideration. “And if I win?”

The bet itself wasn’t the strongest possible play. Tim would have to pray the prize was enough. 

“You said whatever you’re doing needs someone Eye-touched, yeah? Eye-touched and Lonely.” Tim spread his hands by a fraction. “Can’t get much Lonelier than the dead. Ghosts can’t be touched by almost anyone, can go invisible at the drop of a hat, and know every other person they care about will die long, long before they fade away.” 

No missing the interest as Peter nodded. Good. 

“‘Sides, it’s a lot easier to work with someone who won’t argue with you every step of the way. There’s a lot less conversation there for you to put up with. Your plan keeps rolling as is, and it’s easier for everyone.” Tim put his hands back in his pockets. There was no tension in the way he stood; no emotion in his voice beyond normal, casual chatting. He made his offer, and he waited. 

Tim hadn’t let himself think much about lifespans, no, but he wasn’t an idiot. He knew that he would outlast everyone here, everyone who was born today and everyone who would die tomorrow. He would end up lonely anyway. Martin didn’t have to. 

“So,” Peter said after some consideration. “If something attacks the Institute and I fail to step in, I leave. If I succeed, you take Martin’s place.”

Tim shrugged. “Take it or leave it.”

“You know, if it were anyone else I think I would take them up on that.” Peter’s voice was pleasant as ever, but his eyes were calculating. “You were right about one thing: I am a betting man, but I know better than to bet against the End.” 

Shit. Tim kept his face level, but internally he scrambled for some counter, something he could use to draw Peter in. He knew why Peter made the call he did: the End was the eternal and the inevitable. It didn’t have to be tomorrow, it didn’t have to be in a hundred years, but someday it would win. 

All he could do was watch as the sliver of hope he had of intervening slipped through his fingers with Peter’s smile and nod goodbye. 

“Lovely to meet you, Tim, and thank you for some interesting conversation, but I really am going to be late.” He gave a jaunty wave. “I’m sure I’ll see you around.” 

There was no way to tell when it happened, but by the time Peter got to the end of the hall, he was gone. All he left in his wake was the last few curls of Lonely mist. 

As Tim turned back towards the door to Martin’s office, jagged wounds tore open across his back. He knew well enough by now to peg them as shrapnel, but couldn’t remember the source. Some death he was too out of it to remember, maybe?

Unlike most, these _hurt._ They hurt like his own, like the torn-away arm and shredded chest. Tim’s jaw clenched as he froze in place next to the wall. The side of one silent fist hit the plaster in one part anger, three parts pain. 

Just had to ride it out. There was nothing else he could do.

After what was probably a few minutes, the fire across his shoulders and up the back of his neck faded to smoldering embers. Good enough.

It was with thoughts rushing for another solution and coming up empty that Tim made his way back into Martin’s office. Martin looked up for the briefest moment, and the apprehension on his face didn’t budge upon seeing Tim rather than Peter. When Tim didn’t say anything, he returned to his work. There was nothing Tim could do but return to his own, and take up his post at Martin’s back once more. 

He would wait, and watch. He could only wait. He could only watch.

**Author's Note:**

> the conversation tim eavesdrops on is from the end of mag134! this is the only time i intend to have any 1:1 retellings of canon -- i didn't want to have any, but that talk fit my needs too well to pass up. hopefully the slight edits and recontextualizing kept it from dragging hfxgkjfh
> 
> with that, we've rounded the halfway point of the series! 5 installments left, gang. pain train keeps chuggin along
> 
> coming soon: tim meets a pro, and makes a promise
> 
> catch me at [@titanfalling](https://titanfalling.tumblr.com/) on tumblr!


End file.
